


For Queen and country

by AnythingButPink



Category: Neverwhere - Neil Gaiman, The Professionals
Genre: Attempted Rape/Non-Con, Crossover, Established Relationship, Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-03
Updated: 2014-01-09
Packaged: 2018-01-03 04:34:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 19,998
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1065809
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AnythingButPink/pseuds/AnythingButPink
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>September, 1990. Bodie and Doyle cross paths with a seriously injured homeless girl and find themselves navigating London Below in the company of the Marquis de Carabas.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. London Above

**Author's Note:**

> Set before the events in the Neverwhere novel.

“Don't shoot it!”

“It's a rat!”

“Doesn't mean you can shoot it. What harm has it done you, you dumb crud?”

“His plague-ridden ancestors probably killed a load of my ancestors.”

“What the good-looking, intelligent ones? Explains a lot.”

Doyle ducked to avoid the inevitable cuffing that Bodie aimed his way.

“Anyway, that's still no reason to shoot this rat. It was black rats that killed off the handsome and intellectual wing of the Bodie dynasty, not brown rats.”

“You take this bloody animal rights stuff too far sometimes you know?”

“That's not fair. I've never come between you and a sausage yet.”

Bodie smirked and opened his mouth to speak. Doyle held up his hand to silence him.

“Ray!”

“Shhh.”

He inclined his head to better hear the noise coming from further down the rubbish-filled alley. “Come on,” he said, slipping his gun from its holster.

“I thought you said we couldn't shoot the rat?”

Doyle flashed him a look of annoyance and started to creep towards the sound, weapon at the ready. Bodie rolled his eyes, armed himself and followed his partner.

Doyle stopped. The rat had reappeared and was sitting a foot away from the head of a homeless girl. Her blonde hair was matted in dirty, beaded dreadlocks and her clothes appeared to have been stolen from the wardrobe of a play set in the Middle Ages, but Doyle's eye was drawn to the dark red stain of blood at her abdomen. She was talking to the rat. And, though he would never have suggested it to another member of CI5, he was pretty sure the rat was talking back to her.

The rat turned, looked at him appraisingly, chittered something to the girl and looked back at Doyle.

He narrowed his eyes and hoped he wouldn't have to shoot the bloody thing. Or let Bodie shoot it.

“All right, love,” he said, stuffing his gun away. “We're going to call you an ambulance.”

She shook her head. “Only one thing you can do for me, Mister,” she whispered, “and that's to take this to the Marquis at the Floating Market tonight.”

Doyle shook his head. “You're not making any sense. Bit of blood loss'll do that to you.” He could hear Bodie behind him on his RT, calling the ambulance, but he doubted it would get here in time.

“Listen,” she said urgently, grabbing his hand and folding it around a round metallic object. “You have to get this to the Marquis de Carabas. He'll be at the Albert Hall, tonight, 11pm. The Queen's life depends on it.”

Doyle's face was a mask of disbelief.

“Master Whitebelly told me you saved his life back there. He's gone ahead to tell the Marquis you're coming, he'll be looking out for you. Please!”

He could hear sirens in the distance, but it was too late. The girl lay motionless now, ice-blue eyes staring unseeing at the London sky.

Doyle opened his hand and stared at an antique gold tone compact mirror. The lid was etched with a labyrinth design, and at the centre was an image of a marquise with two rising points behind it. He tilted it in his hand, trying to decipher it. From one angle it looked like a bull's head, from another like a winged figure. Either way, the compact was beautiful and probably valuable.

He flicked it open with his thumbnail and saw part of one green eye and a shattered cheekbone reflected in the mirror. He was about to snap the compact shut when the image in the glass shifted and a thin blue-black face appeared, wreathed in a bronzed fog.

The man looked over his shoulder and then back at Doyle. He spoke in a low and urgent tone, “De Carabas, I have it on good authority that someone plans to assassinate the Queen while the Shepherds are exercising their freedom. I'm told they have found a quick way to her. I suggest you leave immediately and take the best fighters you can find with you. You are her only hope - good luck.”

The man checked behind him once again and then the shimmering fog filled the glass for a moment before dissipating and leaving just the reflection of a perplexed CI5 agent once again.

“Come on, mate, ambulance is here... Oh. Too late then.” Bodie stared down at the dead girl, before becoming distracted by his partner, crouched silent and immobile next to her.

“Ah, Ray, don't do this to me. We've got 72 hours' leave, well 71 and a bit, let's hand her over to the police and...”

Doyle looked up at him, big green eyes full of pain and anger and misplaced guilt.

Fuck, thought Bodie, seeing their plans for the next three days evaporating.

Doyle tumbled the compact over and over in his hand. “She asked me to deliver this to a guy at the Albert Hall tonight. Should only take an hour or so. You don't have to come, I could drop it off and meet you afterwards.”

Bodie's eyebrow hoicked itself towards his hairline at the last suggestion. “Yeah, right. What happened to 'never far apart'?”

A blink-and-you-miss-it smile flashed across Doyle's face. “Right then, where are the boys in blue? Let's make a statement and get out of here.”

***

Five minutes later they watched the paramedics scoop the girl into the ambulance. “D'you know where the police are love?” asked Doyle, as one of the paramedics swung the door closed on the body. She shrugged, turned away and walked back to the cab, as her partner started the engine and carefully pulled away.

“That's weird,” muttered Doyle. He pulled out his RT. “Hello base, 4.5 here. Any news on when the police are going to get to us.” The only reply was a crackle of static. He tried again with no more success. “My radio's fucked,” he said, “can you give 'em a try?”

Eager to get away from the alley, which as well as being filthy and smelly, was now becoming chilly too, as the sun sank lower, leaving them at the mercy of an autumnal breeze, Bodie pulled out his RT and attempted to raise CI5's comms staff. He got nothing but static too.

He curled his lip in disgust and shrugged in Doyle's direction. Doyle aimed a kick at a bin and cursed. “We'll give 'em another ten minutes,” he said. “After that they can talk to the Cow.”

***

The police hadn't turned up. Neither Cowley nor anyone else from CI5 had made contact with them. So they found a pub in Westminster, eventually convinced a sulky barman to let them order some food and pretended they were doing nothing except enjoying their time off. At half ten, soberer than they had hoped to be by this point of their leave, they left the pub and started walking across Hyde Park, towards the Albert Hall.

Under the cover of darkness, Doyle reached out and slipped Bodie's hand into his own. Cowley's approval of their relationship hadn't lessened his caution about public demonstrations of affection. Bodie smiled to himself and squeezed the long fingers wrapped about him.

“Nice evening for it.”

Doyle eyed him cautiously. “For what, exactly?”

Bodie waggled his eyebrows suggestively. “Anything you like, sunbeam.”

Doyle poked an elbow into his partner's ribs. “Later, my priapismic monster. We need to be at the Albert Hall for 11, come on.”

Bodie sighed theatrically and sped up to match Doyle's new, faster pace. “Promises, promises, Ray. Anyway. Did they ever find out how many holes it takes to fill the Albert Hall?”

Doyle rolled his eyes. “One day I _will_ ask Cowley to reassign me you know.”

***

They passed the Albert Memorial in all its gilt and marble glory and trotted tidily down stone steps towards the great red and cream concert hall which lay forever in the gilded consort's distant gaze.

Not a soul could be seen. The Royal Albert Hall loomed above them, dark and silent. Bodie grumped and kicked booted toes at the pavement. “ She was delirious mate. Obviously. No surprise under the circumstances. Let's...”

His suggestion that they turn for home was lost on Doyle, who had set off to check out the side doors to the building. Stifling yet another sigh, Bodie jogged to keep up with him.

“There's nobody here, mate. Marquis or otherwise.”

“I know what I saw Bodie. You saw it too. I have to check.”

Bodie held his hands up in surrender and walked alongside as Doyle tentatively tried each door. They had circumnavigated two-thirds of the hall when Doyle slid to a halt and tilted his head at a service door that had been left open a crack.

Bodie nodded his reply and they approached carefully. Doyle wrenching it open on Bodie's second nod. The corridor inside was dimly lit and echoes of chatter and laughing and shouting were sailing along it towards the watchful agents.

Doyle indicated with a flash of his eyes that he was going in. Bodie replied with a faint curl of his lip. They padded along the corridor, past a dozen scruffy white doors, until several turns brought them out on to the floor of the auditorium and their jaws dropped open.

Wooden trestle tables circled the floor, stacked with what could only be loosely termed 'wares'. Some sort of barbecue-cum-kebab roast had been set up on the stage. Close by someone had constructed a rudimentary bar and was selling what looked suspiciously like home-brewed beer. The space was packed with people – an odd mixture of homeless people and art students if they had had to guess.

“How the hell are we going to find your Marquis among this lot?” muttered Bodie in Doyle's ear.

“I'm betting he'll find us,” said Doyle. “We do, ah, stick out a little.”

“Great,” replied Bodie unenthusiastically. His stomach grumbled. “Look, I'm going to get something off the barbecue. You be all right for a minute?”

“Fine, but don't blame me if you spend the next 48 hours in the loo.”

Bodie grinned. “Constitution of an ox, me. An iron ox. Or an ox with an iron constitution.”

Doyle shook his head affectionately and nudged Bodie towards the stage. “I'll wait for you here.”

***

Doyle studied the – what had the girl called it – the Floating Market? He had no idea how these people had got into the Albert Hall, and was vaguely aware he should probably report them, but somehow it seemed both pointless and unnecessary.

A shrill chittering at his feet caught his attention and he found a rat sitting in front of him talking away ten-to-the-dozen. “Oh, hello,” said Doyle, “Master Whitebelly I presume?”

He hadn't realised that rats could look pleased with themselves, but this one certainly did.

“Well, we're here. Where's this Marquis then?”

“At your service,” said a warm, deep voice right behind Doyle's ear. He spun, reaching for his holstered gun, but the man took a step back and spread his hands lazily in something close to, but not actually, surrender.

“Well, not really. I doubt you could afford my services,” said the man. He was about the same height as Doyle, an impudent twinkle danced in his eyes and a dazzling white smile flashed from ear to ear in a familiarly brief manner, but there the similarities ended. He had brown skin the colour of milk chocolate, thin black dreadlocks that fell below his shoulders, and a shock of white cropped hair on the crown of his head. His rather attractive mouth was framed by a neat goatee. His trousers appeared to have come from another century, as did the dandyish white shirt and elaborately decorated waistcoat. His boots might have come to his knees, but they suggested nothing but practicality. And his coat, a black leather garment that reached to his ankles and was neither a frock coat or a trenchcoat, appeared to have been lined with scarlet satin. He oozed imperiousness from every invisible pore.

“The Marquis de Carabas,” said the man, with a faint upward wave of his hands that suggested the rest of the bow might be along later, but almost certainly wouldn't. “Master Whitebelly informs me you carry a message from Clemastine, Mr?”

“Doyle. Ray Doyle.”

The Marquis held out a hand, palm up. Doyle stared at the huge flapping shirt cuffs that extended beyond the dark sleeves of the Marquis' coat and wondered how they could stay so clean.

The Marquis cleared his throat impatiently. “Oh, right, sorry,” said Doyle. “Got any ID?”

The Marquis arched an eyebrow at him. Oh good, thought Doyle, another one who communicates in eyebrow semaphore. “Yeah,” he said, “ID. First thing you learn in my line of work. Well, if you don't count finding the canteen anyway.”

“Oh you were a policeman.” The tiniest hint of a smile troubled the very edge of the Marquis' lips for the briefest of moments.

“Still am in a lot of ways. 'Fraid I can't take the rat's word for anything. So, you got any ID stashed away under … there?” He waved one hand in the general direction of the layered clothing.

“Nothing you would recognise as such,” smiled the Marquis. “But you can ask anyone in the market who I am. Everybody knows _me_.”

The smell of roast meat assailed Doyle's nostrils. He turned his head a little to see Bodie approaching, mouth wrapped round some item of meat in a bun. He chewed and swallowed a mouthful.

“Hey, Ray! You should try this, it's delicious.”

“Yeah. I can't think of a better way to end a dozen years of vegetarianism than eating whatever the hell that is,” said Doyle.

“Didn't ask,” said Bodie cheerfully. “Everyone else was tucking in. What's the worse that could happen?”

Doyle rolled his eyes and returned his attention to the Marquis. “Right, I'm going to see if some of these punters can verify your identity. Bodie'll keep you company until I get back.”

He turned back to Bodie. “Don't give yourself indigestion, sunshine.”

***

Doyle returned ten minutes later, happy that the dandy was indeed the Marquis de Carabas. Bodie had his arms folded across his chest and was glaring at the Marquis.

“All right?” said Doyle.

“Will be when we get out of here and back to normality,” growled Bodie.

The Marquis murmured something under his breath.

“What?” said Bodie hotly.

“All in good time, my dear Mr Bodie...”

“It's just Bodie,” interrupted Bodie.

“My apologies, _Bodie_ , as I was saying, all in good time. Now, Mr Doyle...”

“And he's just Doyle,” said Bodie.

The Marquis straightened up, as if a puppetmaster had tautened his strings, and eyed Bodie evenly. “Your laws don't apply in London Below, _Mister_ Bodie. You want to keep a civil tongue in your head, or you might find one or both floating in the Tyburn.”

Bodie's face hardened. “You threatening me?”

The Marquis' smile didn't begin to reach his eyes. “Not at all. Consider it free advice, and, as anyone here will tell you I don't do freebies, so make the most of it.”

He turned his attention back to Doyle, who was watching his partner intently. “So, Doyle, the message?”

Doyle dipped his left hand into his pocket and pulled out the compact mirror. The Marquis' eyes widened almost imperceptibly at the sight of it. “You recognise it?” asked Doyle.

“It's from the Baron. Quick, let me have it.”

Doyle slid the mirror into the Marquis' hand, who flicked it open and held it close in order to hear the words of the man with coal-black skin. A troubled look flickered across the Marquis' face. Doyle found it most discomforting. He'd known the man less than an hour and already he preferred him in an arrogant and all-knowing mood to a worried and uncertain one.

The Marquis stepped closer to Doyle. “Did you show this to anyone?” he hissed.

“Only Bodie.”

The Marquis stood back and appraised them both with a keen eye. “You're policemen?”

Bodie snorted. “We're CI5.”

“Means nothing to me. I told you, the laws of London Above don't apply here.”

“It's like the police,” said Doyle. “'Cept it's more dangerous.”

“Hence the guns,” said the Marquis.

“Hence the guns,” confirmed Doyle.

“Well, you heard the Baron's message. I need to protect the Queen and I need help to do it. I can't pay you, but if you will accompany me and prevent her assassination, she should be able to send you back to your old lives. If we fail, then you'll be stuck in London Below, but I will owe you a favour. A big one. There are not many people who can make that claim.”

“What do you mean 'stuck in London Below'?” said Bodie.

“There are two Londons. London Above – where you came from – and parallel to it, London Below,” shrugged the Marquis. “People in London Above don't really see those from London Below – you've probably seen that for yourselves. Your good deed means you've become part of London Below, and if you want to go back, you'll need to keep the Queen alive – she's the only one I know who has the power.”

Bodie scrunched up his face in disapproval. “You believe this bollocks?”

Ray shrugged. “Would explain the RTs not working and how long it took to get served this evening. And then there's the mirror. Not even the spooks have technology like that. Besides, we swore to protect Queen and country didn't we?”

“And how the hell are we supposed to get inside Buckingham Palace Ray? We'll get locked up for treason. Even Cowley won't be able to save our arses.”

The Marquis raised a hand. “We're not saving _that_ Queen, Bodie. And reaching her will not be without its challenges, but I think our combined talents will get us there. Now, there isn't a moment to waste. The assassins will strike in two days, and have apparently learned a quick way to their target. We will have to go the long way. Now, come along!”

He turned on his heel, the huge coat whirling behind him, and strode purposefully towards another door. He paused to check that Bodie and Doyle were following, flashed one of his million-watt smiles at them and disappeared into a pitch-black corridor.


	2. The long way

Bodie and Doyle followed him in and stopped short. It sounded like there was a Tube train running past only a few metres away.

“You got a torch?”

“Not on me, no.”

“Gentlemen,” said the Marquis and thrust a cardboard tube into Doyle's hand. He ran a finger down the length of it and the top erupted into a crimson flare. The scarlet light bounced off their surroundings, which looked like a boiler room designed by Heath Robinson.

“Come along,” said the Marquis and started walking swiftly away from them. He ducked under pipes and through archways at a pace even the two CI5 men were struggling to match.

Suddenly, a particularly sharp twist brought them into an enormous hall; magnificent stairs led away to higher levels, polished marble floors reflected the light of the flare and dominating the scene, the skeleton of a huge diplodicus, eerie in the half-light.

“How the hell did we end up in here?” hissed Bodie.

The Marquis winked at him. “I know a few shortcuts of my own. From here we will have to take the established path, so hurry up!”

They followed him as he swished and swooped through more doors and corridors until they found themselves stepping into the sharp chill of the night air. It appeared to be one of those genteel squares you stumble across in London occasionally. Sculpted planting, green space, benches and railings and a memorial statue of someone you don't know. The Marquis was moving faster than ever now, running across the square and skidding elegantly to a halt in front of the lumpen statue. He pulled something metallic from a pocket, levered up a man hole cover and extended a hand. “After you gentlemen.”

Bodie stared at him. “You're joking.”

“Do I look like I'm joking?”

“Come on, Bodie, sooner we start...” Doyle lowered himself cautiously on the metal ladder below road level, one hand gripping the flare and the cold metal tubing. He was surprised and relieved to find it was only a short climb, two metres at most. He held the flare out to light the way for the others. The Marquis came last, dragging the manhole cover back into place behind him and making the tunnel they stood in feel suddenly much smaller.

“Here!” said the Marquis, gesturing to a small metal door in the wall nearby. It was sealed with a wheel, like something you'd see on a ship or a submarine. The Marquis laid both hands on it and pulled. Twenty seconds later he let go, puffing and swearing and shaking his hands.

“Shall I do the honours?” asked Bodie in his poshest accent, rubbing his hands together. He stepped up to the door and started hauling the wheel round. The tunnel was filled with its whining, screeching protest. He paused to catch his breath for a moment and then renewed his assault on the rusted mechanism. This time there was a little less screeching and they could see the wheel slowly turning. By the third time Bodie started hauling, the wheel was turning freely, and a minute later the metal door was ready to open.

The Marquis grinned and clicked his tongue in approval. “We'll make an Undersider of you yet, Bodie.” He pushed the door open and stepped out into brilliant pink-white light.

“Over my dead body,” muttered Bodie.

Doyle laid a hand on his arm. “Don't even joke about it. Not here.”

Bodie's tired face softened momentarily and he kissed Doyle's cheek. “Don't need to worry do I? I've got you.”

The light pouring in through the hatchway was blocked as the Marquis leaned back in. “Come on, lovebirds. Our train's due any minute.”

They clambered out on to the deserted platform. “Where are we?” asked Doyle.

“Pimlico,” said the Marquis.

“Where we going?” asked Bodie.

“To see a man about an elephant. Stay away from the edge,” he added sharply as Bodie peered down on to the tracks.

Bodie caught the look in his eyes and quickly stepped back towards the wall.

“You're a quick learner. You might yet stay alive long enough to meet the Queen.”

His head flicked round at the sound of a train approaching, that familiar, mesmerising combination of rattles and metallic squeals. Warm, overused air rushed out of the tunnel, followed swiftly by the twin headlights of the train.

Like all Londoners, Bodie and Doyle were inured to the well-used appearance of the Underground's rolling stock, but this train took their breath away.

Shiny fire engine-red paint had faded to an almost orange matt coating. It's clerestory roof spoke of its age perhaps more clearly than the scuff marks and white undercoat showing through along its battered edges. Not a single light illuminated the interior. It whined to a halt and the Marquis stepped up to the closed doors of the middle carriage and rapped sharply on the glass.

The doors slid apart an inch.

“Yes?” A silky voice hissed through the gap.

“We need passage to Elephant and Castle,” said the Marquis.

“How many?”

“Three.”

“What payment are you offering?”

“A reliable source of heat.” A look of distaste crossed the Marquis' face as he said it.

A delighted gasp from the unseen speaker segued into the hiss of the doors openly fully to allow the men to enter the carriage. The Marquis gestured for Bodie and Doyle to step in and hopped in neatly behind them.

The carriage wasn't as dark as it looked from the platform. Strung along the ceilings were UV lights that caused Doyle's jeans and T-shirt to fluoresce faintly and the Marquis' shirt to glow almost painfully bright.

It wasn't as empty as it had appeared either. A dozen black-clad figures were sprawled over the antique seats. “Stay close,” whispered the Marquis, “and as far away from _them_ as you can.”

 _They_ were all thin and pale. Goths, presumed Doyle. He felt soft fabric brush against the back of his hand and turned to find one of them standing so close that a map of their personal spaces would overlap by 95 per cent. Doyle stiffened. Only one person he knew was allowed to casually invade his space like that.

“Hello,” breathed the young man. He had sleek dark hair, tied neatly off his face in a ponytail.

The train pulled away and the man pretended to stagger and fall into Doyle.

“You'd be safer sitting down,” said Doyle through gritted teeth, pushing the stranger away as firmly as he dared.

“But, you're new. And pretty. And warm.”

“And spoken for,” said Bodie firmly.

Even in the dark, Doyle could sense the young man appraising his partner. “Hmm,” he whispered, “not so pretty, but very, very warm.”

Suddenly the young man was staggering away from them across the carriage, saved only from an undignifed landing on the floor by the help of another black-clad figure.

“If you want paying, you'll leave these two alone,” snapped the Marquis.

“Perhaps we prefer to take our payment from them,” hissed a voice in the dark.

The Marquis laughed. It was not a pleasant sound. “Typical,” he sneered. “I offer you a perpetual source and you would spurn it for a quick hit.

“You touch them and you will get more heat than you know what to do with. I will hunt down every Velvet in London Below and run them through with a flaming stake.”

The whites of his eyes flashed in the UV light and the two CI5 men shivered. The speech apparently worked on their hosts too. They seemed rooted to their seats. The only noise, the clatter of the train on the track and the whirr of the engine. A squeal of brakes as they lurched around a corner made Bodie and Doyle jump.

“I believe this is our stop,” said the Marquis coldly, and sure enough the light of a platform was filtering through the windows. They felt the train slow and stop.

“Well?” said a female voice.

“You open the doors, Nyx, and I'll tell you.”

“Do you think I'm stupid?”

“I _know_ how stupid Velvets can be. Especially when they need their fix. You know I am a man of my word. Do _you_ think I'm stupid enough to risk my reputation?”

The doors slid open, Bodie and Doyle stepped to the edge of the carriage to prevent them closing, and the Marquis joined them at the exit.

“There is a new nightclub in Dufour's Place. The Grocer's. It is open six nights a week and filled with overprivileged, underloved yuppies.” He gave Nyx, a particularly pale and skinny woman, a hard look. “I'm not sure even their mothers will really miss them.”

She jerked her chin upwards to signify that they were free to leave the carriage, and all three were happy to do so. Bodie and Doyle were scanning the platform as they stepped down, the Marquis kept his eyes on the Velvets until the doors eased shut and the train started to pull away.

There were alone again.

“Now what?” said Bodie.

“We go to the Castle,” said the Marquis.


	3. The Elephant and the Castle

They stepped out of the Tube station into a bitingly cold wind. Doyle zipped up his jacket and shoved his hands into his pockets.

“This way,” said the Marquis and led them towards an ugly-looking high-rise building.

“Funny-looking castle,” muttered Bodie.

“I thought your princess-rescuing days were behind you,” said Doyle.

“I'll never be done saving you, Princess,” snarked Bodie.

Doyle gave him the Look. “You'll pay for that later,” he muttered.

“I look forward to it,” replied Bodie with a huge grin plastered across his face.

They followed the Marquis around to a side door and waited while he picked the lock. The Marquis went to pull the door open and then stopped. “Newington's is an,” he paused for a moment, choosing his next words with care, “ _unstable_ fiefdom. Keep your weapons hidden unless I tell you otherwise. If you can,” he gave Bodie a sceptical look as he zipped his jacket shut to conceal his holster, “keep your mouths shut too.”

Bodie's lip curled, but he said nothing. The Marquis winked and flashed a smile at him. “Good man,” he said. “Right, there's no time to lose. Come on!”

They stepped out of the wind and into a small stairwell. A fluorescent light blinked and flickered, illuminating concrete stairs. Doyle followed the Marquis as he began to climb, with Bodie bringing up the rear. The Marquis moved swiftly, like a wolf, thought Doyle, watching as the man swung himself gracefully around each half landing.

Somewhere around the fifth floor, they noticed that their feet were falling on smooth, rounded stone instead of brutalist concrete. Two floors later, the steps were becoming thinner too, and somehow neither was surprised to find shortly afterwards that the steps were now winding upwards in a circle. The arrowslits in the outer wall were noted, but not remarked upon.

Suddenly they were walking through a stone archway on to the rooftop of the building. The view beyond the roof was exactly as they expected. They were a little more surprised by the ancient crenellations sporting flaming torches and crested banners. Against the far wall was a large wooden throne, and sprawled in it was a morbidly obese man. He was bright pink, as if he'd just been plucked from an over-hot bath, and had no hair apparent – his head was as bald as a baby's bottom and there were no eyebrows to frame his large, dark brown eyes. Despite the cold air he was stripped naked to where his waistline should have been. Dark brown leather trousers strained over his more than ample thighs.

Flames leapt from a brazier in front of the throne, the wood crackling and spitting as pinpricks of bright orange light danced and spun up into the London night.

Four men in actual chainmail flanked the man on the throne, and another two stepped forwards smartly at their appearance in the archway.

“Who is it?” said the fat man in dark, velvety tones.

“De Carabas,” said one of the guards, “and two strangers.”

“Bring them here.”

The guard jerked his head in the direction of the throne. The Marquis smiled, like a cat remembering every detail of a particular mouse for later, and walked across the flat roof.

“What do you want de Carabas?”

“I need passage to the Queen, my liege. It is a matter of some urgency. I must reach her before the Shepherds exercise their Freedom.”

The fat man's lip curled. “Cutting it a bit fine aren't you?”

He held up a hand to silence the Marquis as he started to reply. “Save it for those in your thrall, de Carabas. Very well, I will select the challenger.”

Again, the Marquis opened his mouth to protest. Again, he was silenced with a wag of a fat finger.

“Who are you?” he asked.

“Doyle,” replied the object of Newington's disdainful gaze.

“You will face the challenge.”

Doyle risked a look at the Marquis, who gave the slightest shrug of his shoulders in reply.

“What is the challenge?” said Doyle.

“You must beat my best marksman. You will each have three shots.” He spoke to one of the guards, his mail burnished amber by the flames licking out of the brazier. “Use the other one. And bring up What.”

The guard nodded and grabbed Bodie by the arm. Doyle winced and waited for the clatter of mail-clad backside on the floor. Instead Bodie stared at the fingers wrapped around his biceps and then at the man who owned them. “Don't touch what you can't afford, sunshine,” he growled. “You need me to move, you ask nicely.”

Doyle could only presume some sort of soldier's code was being honoured, because the fingers uncurled and the guard gestured to the wall behind them. “I need you to come this way,” he said.

Bodie's smile didn't touch his eyes. “After you, me old son.”

He followed the guard to the wall, listened to his instructions and drew himself up to attention against the stones. The guard nodded his approval and disappeared through a dark, heavy wooden door.

He reappeared a few minutes later with a young man in tow. Doyle thought Bodie was solidity personified, but this man made him seem suddenly fragile. He was built like a bull, but his face was as expressionless as a dinner plate. “The lights are on,” thought Doyle, “but nobody's home.” The bull, presumably this was What, allowed himself to be lined up at the other end of the wall.

The guard walked back and stood next to Doyle. “Take your marks,” said the fat man, trying to sound bored. The guard stepped up to a small white cross in front of him. Doyle looked down, found a similar mark and copied his opponent.

“Cover their eyes,” said Newington, his mounting excitement audible now.

Panic wrapped its fingers tight about Doyle's chest. He stared at Bodie, lined up in front of him and felt his mouth become as dry as dust. A memory of Bodie haranguing him as they prevented an assassination at Wimbledon returned to him. “And if I had fired from the door and missed, who was standing in the window?” His own voice, cracked with emotion, ran round his head. And Bodie's choked reply, “Since when did you miss?”

He lined himself up to shoot, memorising the outline of his partner and swallowed hard as gritty cloth was tied over his eyes and all useful sight was lost.

He heard Newington's voice again. “The person who shoots closest to the target without injuring it wins. My man will go first.”

Doyle waited in his personal darkness, trying to keep the mental image of Bodie steady and willing himself not to startle out of position when the first shot was fired. Then came an ear-splitting crack followed by a small cheer. He assumed What was unharmed.

He raised his gun, aimed as best he could and prayed to gods he didn't believe in as he squeezed the trigger. There was a gasp from the onlookers and it was all he could do not to snatch away the blindfold.

“Good shot,” came a languid voice behind him. The Marquis. Presumably Bodie wasn't injured then.

The report of his opponent's second shot sounded like a firecracker, an effect only enhanced by the Bonfire Night “Oooh,” that followed it.

He brought up the gun again, aimed a fraction lower and fired. Another “Oooh”.

There was a pause before the next shot, which was greeted with a louder cheer. Doyle tried to relax his neck and shoulder muscles and aimed again. Tears pricked his eyes as pulled the trigger for the last time. The gun barked and then there was silence. He ripped off the sacking and he stared across the roof. There was Bodie, grinning like a lunatic, entirely unpunctured. What appeared to be unharmed too.

The Marquis and another guard were studying the stones behind the living targets carefully. They conferred and walked back towards Newington, their faces unreadable.

“Well?” said Newington impatiently.

“My liege, the challenger has won. I could barely get my thumb between his last bullet and his friend's head.”

Newington's face crumpled in a scowl. “Very well, de Carabas. Take the elephant, but consider yourself banished from my lands. I do not wish to set eyes upon you, or your men, again.”

The Marquis' shirt cuffs practically dragged across the floor as their owner dipped in an elegant and obsequious bow. “Thank you, my liege.”

He dropped to one knee and extended a hand. Newington put one paw into a trouser pocket and dropped something shiny on to the Marquis' palm. Brown fingers closed upon the object and the Marquis was backing swiftly towards the archway.

Doyle recognised the cue and followed him, meeting Bodie halfway. He opened his mouth to speak, but the Marquis laid an arm along each of their shoulders, fingers steering them away from the court.

“Gentlemen,” he said through a polite smile, “let us not linger. Time, tide and murderous assassins wait for no man, and Newington may change his mind at any moment.”

They allowed themselves to be led to the top of the stairs, walking with dignity until they were out of sight of Newington and his men, then hurling themselves down the steps as if George Cowley himself was calling them back to ground level.

The three men flung themselves, gasping, through the door and out into the freezing night air. The Marquis slammed the door shut and leaned against it, breathing hard, but eyes sparkling.

He grinned at Doyle, bent over, hands on his thighs but head up and watching for trouble. “You're the best marksman I've ever met.”

Doyle returned the grin, in spite of his heaving chest. “And he,” he tilted his head to where Bodie stood at his side, hands on hips, “would have moaned until my dying day if I'd as much as grazed him.”

“Told you before,” said Bodie, reaching out to affectionately cuff Doyle's curls, “since when did you miss?”

The Marquis brought his head up sharply. “I think we're about to have company. This way.”

He started walking briskly away from the tower block and led them down a dirty, unlit alley that looked like a dead end but at the last minute revealed a narrow passageway. They padded between the high red-brick walls until the Marquis turned sharply and jogged down dangerously thin brick steps until they reached a rickety wooden jetty.

The Marquis lit a lantern hanging from a wooden post, as pale as old bones, and Bodie and Doyle saw that they were in a brick-built tunnel, through which flowed black, greasy water that slapped the sides of a long rowing boat, the wood glowing like amber in the yellow lantern light.

“Where the hell are we?” said Bodie.

“The Earl's Sluice,” said the Marquis. “There's no knowing how determined Newington will be to get his elephant back though, so perhaps we could continue this discussion when we're underway?”

He stepped down lightly into the boat, and took a seat at the bow.

“After you,” said Bodie and started to untie the painter as Doyle took a seat near the stern. He had just seated himself and picked up the oars when he heard what sounded horribly like chainmail crashing against brickwork and heavy feet pounding closer. Bodie pushed the boat into the middle of the channel with one oar as the guards fell on to the jetty, cursing.

“Which way?”

“Right hand down, steady as you go,” smiled the Marquis. Bodie pulled on one oar to turn the boat and then slid both oars into the water and put his ox-like back into getting them as far away from Newington's men as possible.


	4. A trip to the circus

“D'you want me to row for a bit?” Doyle wished he could see Bodie's face, but the Marquis' lantern barely let him see his partner's silhouette as pulled them through the evil-looking water.

“Nah, but you can buy me a swiss roll when this is all over.”

Doyle smiled, then dropped his chin and let a shuddering sigh fall. He spoke quietly, “ _I'd_ never have forgiven myself if I'd hit you, you know that right?”

He could have sworn he heard Bodie's eyes roll in their sockets.

“It's fine, Ray. _I'm_ fine. We did what we had to and I've a nasty feeling we're going to face worse than that before this is over, so let it go, Angelfish.”

The Marquis cleared his throat noisily. “We need to take the junction on your right, Bodie.”

Bodie stopped rowing, checked over his shoulder and manoeuvred the boat towards a narrower tunnel that peeled off from the sluice. “Sure we'll fit?” he asked as he scraped an oar on the brickwork.

“We'll fit,” said the Marquis. “The Neckinger will take us out to the Thames. Not far now.”

***

They dragged the boat on to the shingle and mud at the river's edge and thanked gods they didn't believe in for low tide. To their left stood Tower Bridge, majestic in the grimy orange darkness that passed for night in London.

The Marquis was already climbing a rusty metal ladder set into the wall behind them.

“Come on, sunshine,” said Bodie, planting a kiss on Doyle's cheekbone, “up and at 'em.”

Doyle caught his face in his hand and held him close. He pressed his lips to Bodie's and then rested his forehead on his partner's.

“I know,” said Bodie with feeling, “and I told you, let it go.” He pulled Doyle's face away from his own, planted a cheerful kiss on familiar lips and started to make for the ladder. “After you,” he said.

Doyle grasped a cold rung in his hands and began to climb. He was halfway up when he realised Bodie wasn't following. “You coming?”

“Just enjoying the view,” said Bodie, waggling his eyebrows.

“You should donate your brain to medical research. 'One owner, hardly used', seeing as you do all your thinking with your stomach and your dick.”

“Oi! Just because you crash the gears on yours and thrash it around on the high moral ground, doesn't make it any less interesting to the white-coat brigade. They'd love to know what makes you tick, Ray.”

Doyle hauled himself to the top of the ladder and climbed over the wall. The bridge towered over them – a masterpiece of artifice and, like the creature brought to life by Victor Frankenstein, destined to be misidentified forever more. He felt a hand caress his arse and turned to catch the eye of its owner. Bodie stood at his shoulder, face unreadable except for the faintest upward curl at the very edge of his lip. “Where next?” he asked.

The Marquis jerked his head at the road deck of the bridge. “Up and over, boys. Then down and under.”

Bodie and Doyle exchanged worried glances. “I don't like the sound of that,” muttered Doyle.

***

They had just about stopped worrying about what the Marquis had meant, when they reached the second tower. Traffic across the bridge was light and there were no other pedestrians to be seen. The Marquis stopped at a wooden door painted a rich royal blue. He slipped a loop of leather cord from around his neck and grasped the silvery Yale key it held in his fingers. With a quick glance around him to be sure they weren't being observed, he slid the key into the lock and turned it. He pushed the door open. “After you gentlemen.”

He smiled as he watched them both reach reflexively for their guns. “You won't need them. Not yet, anyway.”

They exchanged a look, stepped inside the tower and gaped. They could see nothing above them, but below the gantry on which they stood was a rickety-looking wooden structure which wound its way down into utter blackness.

The Marquis thrust a lantern into Doyle's, and then Bodie's hands, and then pulled the blue door shut behind them. He lit a lantern of his own and started to walk carefully down the wooden steps in front of them.

The whole structure appeared to have been built from driftwood, old pallets, railway sleepers and broken barrels and crates. There was no rail between them and a long, deadly fall into the darkness, and nothing but the damp clay of the walls to hold on to. They followed the Marquis with a degree of caution no one on the squad would have recognised.

By the time they rounded the final corner, some fifteen minutes later, even Bodie's top lip showed the faintest sheen of sweat.

“This way,” said the Marquis and led them into a tunnel. More recycled wood propped up the roof, which barely cleared Bodie's head.

“Where _are_ we going anyway?” said Doyle.

The Marquis spun on his heel mid-walk, his eyes glittering in the golden lamplight and grinned that irredeemably untrustworthy grin. “We're going to the circus!”

“Lions and tiger and bears – oh my,” breathed Bodie in Doyle's ear. Doyle shivered and Bodie brushed a kiss against his cheek before they started to move forward again.

***

They walked in silence through the tunnel. Thirty minutes passed and the lights in the lanterns were beginning to flicker and sputter as the oil ran out. Doyle's was the first to fail, followed swiftly by Bodie's. The last moments of the Marquis' light revealed a slim spiral staircase in front of them, its metalwork painted scarlet, the gloss shimmering like a poppy petal. Then with a desultory air, the light faded and they were left in darkness.

They heard the Marquis' boots on the first step and then the second. They stretched out hands to avoid smacking softer parts of them into the metal, found the rail and started to climb too.

After a few minutes, the Marquis stopped suddenly. “Close your eyes,” he said.

“Why?” said Doyle, “Is there a bloody Gorgon coming?”

The Marquis laughed. “No, she never leaves Highgate. But I am about to open a door and the light will be very bright and I'd hate for you to fall down the stairs.”

“Oh. Right.” Doyle closed his eyes. He heard the door open and felt the faint pain of the light even through his eyelids. When it didn't hurt to have his eyes shut anymore, he opened them a little to let his eyeballs readjust.

Dazzling white light danced off white tiles. They were just off another Tube platform. As he became able to open his eyes more, he read the name of the station and realised that he should have known this was their destination.

“Where are we?” said Bodie beneath him.

“Piccadilly,” said Doyle, climbing the last few steps and joining the Marquis on the platform. Unlike Pimlico or Elephant and Castle, this platform was heaving with people. There were what Doyle now recognized as the denizens of London Below clustered around various performers. In the circle nearest to him a slender young lady in a leotard that he was willing to bet was actually made from snakeskin, was tying herself in knots. As she tucked both her ankles behind her head Bodie emerged from the darkness and muttered, “Bloody 'ell.”

The Marquis pushed the door shut behind them and leaned in. “We need to find the ringmaster,” he said quietly, and started to move through the crowds. Bodie and Doyle followed, trying not to stare at the small boy eating fire, the man who appeared to be lying peacefully a foot above the platform with nothing beneath him but warm, stale Underground air or the woman driving nails through her palm with no sign of pain or blood.

The Marquis stopped to whisper in the ear of an incredibly spherical, almost naked man who had been tattooed in blue and green ink to resemble a globe of the world. Doyle couldn't help but notice sea serpents in the man's Pacific Ocean.

The Marquis pressed something into the globe man's hand and kept moving, though in a new direction. They made their way past buskers and acrobats and a barbecue like the one at the Albert Hall. Bodie looked at it, winced and kept moving.

“What's up? Your ox-like constitution failing you?”

Bodie grimaced. “Nah. Just found out what they put in the buns.”

“And?”

“Let's just say I've never been a cat-person, Ray.”

Doyle's eyes widened and he barked that filthy, Sid James laugh that Bodie couldn't hear often enough, even at his own expense.

The Marquis glanced back over his shoulder, took in Doyle's amusement, Bodie's disgruntlement and the hot food stall just behind them and grinned.

“I've seen him,” he said. “Come on.”

He plunged on through the crowds and soon they could hear one voice above the hubbub, “Roll up, roll up! Ladies, gentlemen and children... We have such delights for you tonight as you will never have seen before or will ever see again!”

The voice belonged to a middle-aged man in a 19th century Coldstream Guard's uniform, who was standing on the stairs leading to surface level. The white trousers were pristine, but the scarlet jacket was frayed and the plume on his hat was thin and drooping sadly. Rather like his dyed-black moustache.

The Marquis bowed in front of him and said respectfully, “Commander.”

The ringmaster eyed him carefully. “De Carabas. What can we have done that is so dreadful to merit your esteemed company?”

The Marquis produced the small metal figure from his coat pocket and held it out on a flat palm. “We request safe passage to the Garden, if it pleases you.”

The man's pale blue eyes lit up at the sight of the copper-coloured elephant. “You won it back!” He sighed and reached out to pluck the token from the Marquis' hand, but slim fingers wrapped themselves swiftly around the hard-won prize.

“Forgive me, sir,” said the Marquis softly, “but it is of the utmost importance that we reach the Garden as swiftly as possible and I must have your word that you will get us there safely.”

The ringmaster's face hardened, but he lifted his chin defiantly and gave a short, sharp nod. “I will honour the agreement,” he said drily. “Come.”

He stepped down and started walking towards a platform. This one was empty. They stood behind the line and waited. It wasn't long before a push of air and a familiar squealing heralded the approach of a train.

It was a single wooden unit, like a shed on wheels. It had no headlights, just two lanterns hanging beneath the driver's darkened cab. When it halted, the ringmaster slid back the door and Doyle felt a wave of horror, remembering films of cattle trucks in Europe from fifty years before.

The Marquis signalled that they should step inside, and too tired now to argue, they did as he said without comment. He opened his hand once more and let the elephant tumble into the ringmaster's pale pink palm.

“Thank you, commander,” he said, bowing again before stepping into the carriage.

The ringmaster nodded curtly, slid the door shut and banged on the wall to tell the driver to go.

Fairy lights were strung incongruously around the ceiling of the carriage, their pale yellow light illuminating a large heap of hay and several blankets.

“Get some sleep,” said the Marquis. “This will take a while and I'll need you fresh when we reach the Garden.”

They looked at him, suddenly feeling nearly 24 hours of wakefulness deep in their bones, and surrendered gracefully to the soft bed and warm blankets.


	5. Wish me well, oh wishing well

The carriage door slid open and thin, bright sunlight poured into the warm, dark space.

“Rise and shine,” said the Marquis from the doorway.

Bodie and Doyle grimaced and blinked. Bodie unwrapped his arm from around Doyle's waist and pushed himself up from the hay. Doyle groaned and slowly followed his lead.

“Where are we?” said Bodie.

“Covent Garden.”

“What time is it?” asked Doyle.

“Nearly midday.”

“But...”

“I told you, Doyle, we have to go the long way and there are few journeys in London Below longer than the one from the Circus to the Garden.”

Bodie yawned hugely and plucked a bit of hay out of Doyle's curls.

“We need to keep moving,” said the Marquis sternly. “Come on!”

They forced themselves to stand, brushing off more hay and walking stiffly up to the door of the carriage. They stared at the platform. Not an inch of chewing gum-encrusted concrete floor could be seen. Instead a wildflower meadow carpeted the platform – the grasses in full flower and broken up by daisy-like corn chamomile, the pink flush of corn cockles, the blue crowns of cornflowers and beautiful, poignant common poppies.

The curved, white-tiled walls were smothered in ivy, and buddleias had seeded themselves around the edges, their purple and white blossom scenting the air.

They found themselves reaching for each other's hands quite unconsciously as they stepped out of the carriage and followed the Marquis through the long grass towards the far end of the platform.

“If Cowley makes us write a report about any of this,” said Doyle, “I'm resigning.”

Bodie dug a gentle elbow into him. “Cowley currently has no memory of us, according to him,” he inclined his head in the Marquis' direction. “Not worth worrying about, sunshine.”

The Marquis had stopped in front of a six-foot-high wrought iron garden gate that was set in the end wall of the platform. A chalkboard sign had been hung upon it. “Beware of the fairies,” read Bodie, and raised a sceptical eyebrow at the Marquis.

The Marquis placed his hand on the latch of the gate. “Beware of them, Bodie, but whatever you do, don't shoot them or we'll never get out of here alive.”

He thumbed the latch and pulled the gate open before stepping into a short passageway lit by sunlight from the other end. Bodie and Doyle followed, Doyle pulling the gate shut behind them.

They emerged into the strangest garden they had ever seen. A vast lawn snaked away from them, with borders filled with common and exotic garden plants, none to a scale that was familiar and many out of season. A pine tree shot up 100ft high in one place, while a seemingly mature oak barely reached Bodie's shoulder in another. Bird of paradise plants towered over them on one side, while on the other a clump of tulips barely reached their ankles. There didn't seem to be any sky to speak of above or beyond the trees.

“Wonder where the fairies are?” muttered Bodie into Doyle's ear.

“At the bottom of the garden, of course,” declared the Marquis with that worrying twinkle back in his eye.

“Of course,” deadpanned Bodie and followed him on past the brain-twisting planting scheme.

They had just passed beneath the twelve-foot-high red hot pokers when the Marquis clapped his hands together and made a sharp turn to the right on a narrow grassy path that led into a stand of almost-normal height beech trees. A short walk brought them to a clearing, in the centre of which was an oversized wishing well. The mouth had to be at least two metres across and the bucket was large enough to hold a man.

It seemed inevitable that the Marquis would stop at the well, and he didn't disappoint them.

“The key to the maze is at the bottom of the well. Someone has to retrieve the key.” The Marquis looked at them expectantly.

Bodie and Doyle looked at each other. "You're lighter than me. And a better swimmer," said Bodie.

It was Doyle's turn to look sceptical and unimpressed.

“Look at it this way, sunbeam,” said Bodie, “d'you really want to haul my weight all the way back up?” He patted his flat stomach with both hands. “A lot of swiss rolls have gone into this over the years...”

Doyle rolled his eyes, but toed off his boots, pulled off his socks and dropped his jacket and holster on top of them. He peered over the edge of the well into a long, deep darkness. “How the hell am I s'posed to find anything down there?”

The Marquis reached into his coat pocket and produced a handful of what looked like misshapen marbles. He tipped them into Doyle's hand – they were lighter and warmer than he expected, more like rubber than glass.

“When you reach the surface, tip them into the water. They'll give you enough light to see by.”

“They'd better,” said Doyle, pouring them into the breast pocket of his shirt.

“Ready?” said Bodie, hands on the winding lever.

Doyle climbed up on to the lip of the well and pulled the bucket towards him with his feet. The Marquis reached past him to help steady it as he lowered himself carefully inside and slowly allowed it to swing back to the centre.

“First floor – Telephones, gents ready-made suits, shirts, suits, ties, hats. Going down...” said Bodie in a sing-song voice.

Doyle braced himself against the wooden sides of the bucket and hoped it was watertight as Bodie slowly and carefully began lowering away. He gazed up at the Marquis' dark face watching him disappear into the darkness and then concentrated on swallowing his fear as the light above him grew steadily smaller.

***

“How long have you two been partners?”

Bodie glared at the Marquis. It was taking a huge effort to lower Doyle at a more sedate pace than gravity was demanding. “Over fifteen years,” he managed through a clenched jaw.

“Dangerous work is it?”

“Yep.”

“You put yourselves in harm's way for each other a lot?”

A shadow crossed Bodie's face. He nodded.

“If I can only save one of you. Which one should I choose?”

Bodie blinked, stared at the Marquis as if seeing him for the first time, and said, “Him. Obviously.”

The Marquis tilted his head and allowed a glimmer of a smile to crease his lips. “Understood,” he said.

***

The bucket hit the water with a quiet smack. Doyle closed his eyes, knowing it was a ridiculous thing to do under the circumstances, and took a deep, and hopefully, calming breath. He reached into his pocket for the rubber marbles and dropped one into the water. It lit up with a bright yellow light. He twisted his lips in grudging admiration and dropped the rest around him, admiring the blue and green light that they produced.

He had no idea how long they would keep working, and so driven by a fear of being trapped down here in the dark, he clambered out and lowered himself into the water. It was surprisingly warm, like the hot springs he and Bodie had enjoyed in British Columbia two years ago. He allowed himself to hope that their luck was turning, took a huge lungful of air and dived for the bottom of the well.

The lights were surprisingly efficacious. They were illuminating the cobbled base of the well a good five metres away. He swam hard towards it, knowing he'd be pushing his abilities if he didn't find the key quickly.

As he neared the bottom, a movement caught his eye. He snapped his head round, but could see nothing. He turned his attention back to the smooth, rounded stones beneath him, searching for the key.

Thankfully it wasn't hidden and didn't appear to be booby-trapped. It sat, a heavy, black old-fashioned thing in the centre of the floor. He grabbed it, shoved it in his back pocket and pushed up frantically towards the surface. The air in his lungs was long gone. His chest hurt and now tiny silver sparkles were dancing across his vision as his arms pulled him through the water. He was halfway up when the sparkles disappeared and dark grey fog crept across instead and he fell into unconsciousness.

***

Doyle felt cold hands on his cheeks and colder lips on his mouth and his breath returning. Bodie must have pulled me out, he thought, then realised he was still submerged. His eyes flew open and he almost wasted the new lungful of air he'd been gifted.

A pale androgynous creature was clasping his head in its hands and filling his lungs with air. It realised that he was awake and released him. Doyle stared at the creature's white hair waving in the water, its seemingly black-irised eyes, expressionless mouth and the way its humanness disappeared at the armpits to be replaced with a decidely piscine body. He gave the creature a thumbs up in the hope that some signs were universal and kicked once again for the floating lights and a decent air supply.

***

Bodie sat on the grass, his back against the wall of the well, skin flushed and breathing heavily. The Marquis stood next to him, looking somewhat disheveled, and avoiding Bodie's accusing gaze.

The rope swung from side to side.

“Your cue I think.”

Bodie hauled himself upright and leaned over the well. “You okay?” he shouted.

“Yeah, but the lift service is bloody terrible round here.”

Bodie smiled with relief and started to inch his partner back to ground level.

***

The return journey seemed to take forever, but eventually he could see his own hands in front of his face, and then the Marquis waiting for him and finally Bodie, who looked like he'd fallen into a pit of wildcats in the last half an hour. His face was scratched and bleeding and his shirt was ripped and torn.

“What the hell happened to you?”

“Fairies,” said Bodie glumly.

“Take it they're not sugar and spice and all things nice then?”

Bodie grimaced. “Vicious little buggers.”

“You've seen them off though?”

Bodie quirked an eyebrow at him. “Mobile ghetto, remember?”

Doyle flashed a grin at him and, worries allayed, started shivering in his cold, wet clothes.

“Come on, sunshine, let's have you out there before you turn blue.”

***

Doyle sat, arms wrapped around himself for extra warmth, watching Bodie put his socks and boots on for him, and felt love tighten around his chest for the millionth time. As Bodie pushed the second boot on and patted a knee encased in wet denim, Doyle reached out his hand to cover Bodie's and squeezed.

Bodie looked at him, smiled sweetly and then more malevolently. “Come on, Ray, a nice brisk walk will warm you up!”

“Not as much as hot cuppa would. I'm famished.”

“Here.”

A packet of malted milk biscuits came flying through the air towards them, swiftly followed by two cartons of orange juice.

“You can have them on the way,” said the Marquis, “but we must move on before the fairies return. They will certainly bring reinforcements.”

Bodie grimaced, pushed the supplies in his pockets, and himself upright. He offered a hand to Doyle, who let himself be pulled up.

“Bet you're wishing you'd let me shoot that rat now, aren't you?” smirked Bodie and gave Doyle a peck on the cheek.

“What? And miss all this?” He gestured to his sodden clothing and shook his head. “Come on, gissus a biscuit and let's get moving.”


	6. Till death do us part

The biscuits had been reduced to a nothing more than a few crumbs and the last drops of juice had been sucked greedily and noisily from the cartons. They had walked through the dappled sunlight of the woods until they found the way blocked by a vast medieval stone wall. It stretched as far as the eye could see, both left and right. Bodie and Doyle exchanged a look.

“You might as well rest while we wait,” said the Marquis.

“What we waiting for?” asked Doyle, “A wrecking ball?”

The Marquis turned his unnerving grin on them. “An old friend,” he replied. Then he lowered himself on to a patch of grass, leaned against the wall and shut his eyes.

Bodie leaned over and whispered in Doyle's ear, “Very helpful, I don't think. D'you think he's related to Cowley?”

Doyle shrugged. “Wouldn't surprise me,” he said.

Bodie grimaced and found the warmest spot he could for them to rest in, aware that Doyle's clothes needed all the help they could get to dry out. When his partner sank down beside him, Bodie slid his arm around his shoulders and pulled him in close.

“Ray?”

Doyle looked at him sharply, liking neither the forced casualness of his tone, nor the way it failed to conceal the worry that lay beneath it.

“Bodie,” he said warily.

Bodie pressed a kiss to his forehead. “Listen, sunshine, if you get the chance to get out of here, I want you to take it.”

“Bo-die...”

Bodie glared at Doyle, eyes hard, nostrils flared, lip curled – a look so familiar Doyle could have painted it from memory. “And I will,” he thought, “when we get back.”

“Bodie,” he said again, “what happened to that 'never far apart' eh? Going nowhere without you mate.”

“I'm not sure we will both get back.” He dropped his voice to a whisper. “Something he said, I don't think he expects us both to make it. So, promise me,” he wrapped his fingers around Doyle's and squeezed, “if you get the chance to go home, take it. Don't look back. Just go.”

“What the hell did that catburger do to you, Bodie?” Doyle shook his head. “He's only seen one of us in action at a time. We are Gestalt theory personified, sunbeam.”

Bodie frowned.

Doyle grinned. “The whole is greater...”

“...than the sum of its parts,” finished Bodie in his best upper-crust accent. “I know what Gestalt theory is, old boy.” He reverted to his normal voice. “Just not convinced that German psychology is a reliable back-up plan.”

Doyle rested his head on Bodie's shoulder and smiled. “I'm not relying on the shrinks to save me. Leaving that to the only back-up I've ever needed.”

***

They were woken by a grinding noise and sprang to their feet, hands reaching inside jackets for guns. A short distance away the Marquis was unfurling himself and stretching like a cat ready for a quick wash and then another light snooze.

The noise was coming from the wall. Specks of mortar were falling from it as an impossible door started to swing open in the stones. As the stone door finished moving, a sombre-looking middle-aged man with straggly white hair brushing his shoulders stepped out of the darkness beyond, eyeing Bodie and Doyle with suspicion. As his gaze fell upon the Marquis he relaxed and held out a pale, wrinkled hand in welcome. “De Carabas.”

“My Lord Portico,” said the Marquis, shaking the proffered hand and sinking into a bow. “Thank you for your assistance.”

“No, thank you, de Carabas for risking your own neck to save the Queen's. I am doing my best to discover who is behind this wickedness, but our first priority must be to stop the assassins. Here...”

He produced a black leather satchel and handed it to the Marquis.

“Provisions for the three of you,” he said, “and tickets to the Maze. Your train is on platform 3 and leaves in five minutes.”

The Marquis swung the bag over a shoulder and smiled. “Then we must dally no longer. Come along, boys!”

He bowed to the man once more and loped through the hole in the wall and into the blackness.

“Here we go again,” muttered Bodie and followed the Marquis.

“Pleasure doing business with you,” said Doyle to Lord Portico and stepped into the dark behind his partner.

He emerged on the concourse at Charing Cross Station and blinked at the surprising ordinariness of his surroundings. Passengers milled around them, unintelligible announcements bounced off the high brick walls and glass ceilings.

“This way,” said the Marquis and marched towards platform 3, where a perfectly normal train stood waiting. They followed a student wearing a backpack almost as big as himself into a carriage and settled themselves into three gaudily patterned seats.

The Marquis opened the bag and offered it to his companions. “Best eat while we can. I'm not sure when we'll next get the chance.”

***

Half an hour later the train pulled in to Maze Hill station and the three men stepped down from the train full of bread, cheese, fruit and Eccles cake.

The Marquis waited for the train to pull away and their fellow travellers to disappear, then walked purposefully along the platform and down on to the ballast. He checked there were no trains coming and walked swiftly to a bridge carrying cars over the railway line and slipped the key from the well into a lock in an ancient-looking wooden door that would not have looked out of place in a church. Bodie and Doyle wasted no time getting off the track and following him through.

Ahead of them rose a grassy hill, smooth and curved like a child's drawing. It wasn't crowned with a small, square house with smoke pouring from its chimney though. Instead a leafless, twisted tree was silhouetted against the lemon and grey sky.

“I can see the hill,” said Doyle. “Where's the maze?”

“Waiting for us,” replied the Marquis. “You ready?”

“Probably not,” said Bodie.

The Marquis laughed and took a step forward on to the springy, emerald-green turf. As his foot brushed the blades of grass, a dark hedge, so green it was almost black, erupted from the ground in front of them.

“Come on!” urged the Marquis.

They joined him on the shrinking sward as the hedge 'grew' higher with a rushing, urgent groan. When they could only see the sky by tilting their heads backwards, silence fell and movement ceased.

“We have to reach the tree at the top of the hill,” said the Marquis.

Doyle glared at the impenetrable wall of hedge that surrounded them. “Got a chainsaw in your pocket have you?”

The Marquis looked disappointed. “It's only waiting for us.”

And he stepped forward.

An oval hole appeared in the greenery, as if two invisible hands had pulled back curtains. The Marquis climbed through and waited for Bodie and Doyle to follow.

As Doyle's second foot hit the ground, whatever was holding the hedge let go and the gap closed behind them. There were three paths, one to the left, one to the right and one straight ahead.

“Right,” said Doyle. “Are we doing the 'keep to the left' thing then?”

The Marquis shook his head. “There's one path for each of us. We travel through the maze alone and hope to meet again at the end.”

“Charming,” said Doyle.

“I'll take the middle path,” said the Marquis.

“And he'll take the left – as usual,” said Bodie with a wink at his partner.

Doyle looked at him, a little scared. “You be careful, Bodie. You end up dead, sunshine and _I'll_ bloody kill you, all right?”

Bodie beamed at him, took Doyle's face in his hands and pulled him into a soft kiss. “Ray. I've survived the jungle, the SAS, George Cowley and more murderous nutters than I can count. I'll be fine, mate.” He gave Doyle a gentle double tap on the cheek. “See you at the top of the hill.”

“Good luck, gentlemen,” said the Marquis. He clapped a hand on their shoulders and they each stepped on to their chosen path.

***

It was less a maze than a labyrinth, Doyle realised. The path twisted and turned, but there were no choices to make, no alternative branches to follow. Apprehension at where the path was taking him sat heavy in his gut as he took each corner with more care than was usual.

***

She was more beautiful than he remembered. Her light brown skin caught the thin light and seemed to glow. Her hair was a gorgeous riot of chestnut curls and her dark blue eyes positively glittered with pleasure at the sight of him.

For a moment he forgot. Forgot where he was, where he was going and why she was an impossibility. He faltered to a halt and stared at her.

“My love,” she said. “It has been too long.”

“Cass.” His lips shaped the name before his mind could stop them.

She smiled and held out a long, graceful arm towards him.

His hand started to rise towards hers. He forced it into a coat pocket instead.

She pouted. “Is this any way to greet me?” she sighed. “I recall when the gods themselves couldn't stop you stroking my skin, kissing my lips...”

“It was a long time ago,” he cut her off, his voice ragged with remembered emotions, “and you were still alive then.”

She looked hurt. “I _am_ alive now. The Maze has made me alive. If you want we can be alive together forever here. Just one kiss, my love, and we will never be apart again.”

He could feel her soft lips on his, as if it were yesterday. Her sweet breath upon his neck, his hands on her warm skin, and ached to kiss her once again. He blinked and for a millisecond Cassiopeia was gone, and in her place stood a writhing, worm-thing with a mouth like a wound with teeth.

The Marquis was a man who rarely gave doubt the benefit of his scalpel-sharp intellect, and a great big uncertainty had been prickling his mind from the moment he set eyes on the creature in front of him. Now he knew what he had to do.

He turned a wide, beaming smile on the figure in front of him. If it had been Cass, she would have run to the farthest corner of London Below and locked herself behind the sturdiest door she could find. But the thing masquerading as Cass didn't know how many smiles the Marquis owned or the meaning of this one, and only writhed with delight.

"My love," he said, pulling his hand out of his pocket and extending it towards the Cass-shaped figure. She smiled and walked towards him, hands clasped demurely in front of her.

They stood, inches apart, her head tipped up, awaiting a kiss; his tilted like a blackbird's while on a fence, checking for the resident cat.

"Kiss me, my love," she said, and he heard the sibilant hiss of the thing hiding beneath Cass's face.

His eyes hardened, the smile thinned and he plunged a knife deep into the creature's belly.

It sank to the floor, fingers clutching at its blood-soaked belly, and screamed.

"Give it up," he growled.

Cass's tear-filled eyes looked up at him. His lips curled into a sneer.

"Give it up and I will finish you quickly. Otherwise you can lie here and bleed to death slowly and painfully."

"Please," it whispered.

"No," he said and, cleaning the blood from his blade, stepped over the supine body. The path turned right and he followed it without a glance backwards.

***

Beyond the corner, the path widened dramatically. The sight of two familiar figures caused Doyle's heart to beat like a steamhammer inside his chest. One man lay on the floor, curled into a ball, arms wrapped around his head to protect himself from the kicking boots of the other.

Fury flared in Doyle's gut at the betrayal being played out in front of him.

“Leave him alone!” he shouted.

The older man turned at the voice, a sneer ruining what could have been a handsome face. He had Doyle's eyes and mouth. The same high cheekbones too. But time had taken its toll and this face was fuller. The head didn't carry a cheery mop of brown curls either. The hair was short, straight and steely grey, except where it had silvered at the temples.

“What are you going to do about it, boy?”

Doyle drew his gun and pointed it at the man's chest. “Whatever I have to do. Dad.” The second man wasn't moving. Doyle gestured with the gun. “Step away from him.”

“Make me.” His father gave him an evil grin. “I know all about you two. It disgusts me... No son of mine...”

“Step away or I will shoot you, you old bastard.”

“No point, son, think he's shuffled off this mortal coil.”

Doyle allowed his gaze to fall on Bodie's battered body. His face was bloody and his eyes were fixed open, staring unseeing at the pale sky above him. Doyle's ears were filled with the rushing pounding of his own frantic heartbeat. He blinked away the prickle of tears and felt the gun, warm and heavy in his hands. He could hear his father talking somewhere behind the swirl of noise in his head.

“It's for the best,” his father was saying, “you can find yourself a nice girl now. Might even make me proud of you at last...”

Three shots in quick succession slammed into the chest of Raymond Doyle's father. He fell backwards, an ungainly sight, arms flung wide, mouth open in shock. As he hit the ground, he shattered like a piece of porcelain and Doyle watched, horrified, as _something_ slithered away into the maze wall at speed. He sank to his knees and stared at Bodie's dead body, tears now pouring down his cheeks.

***

Raucous laughter and shouting made him slow his steps. He sidled up to the next corner and took a cautious peek. His lip curled in disgust at what he saw. Two men had pinned Doyle down, he lay prone, limbs spreadeagled, jeans tugged down and arse as bare as the day he was born. One of the men, a skinny albino, was pushing Doyle's face into the grass to muffle his shouts. The second man, olive-skinned and bristling with dark hair, held Doyle's gun against his captive's head. A third man knelt above Doyle, his own trousers at half-mast, his unpleasant intentions all too clear.

Bodie drew his own weapon, aimed carefully and shot the olive-skinned man in the head, before putting a bullet through the heart of the albino man. He strode across the grass towards the would-be rapist, hatred blazing in his eyes and pulled the trigger three more times.

“Ray?”

His partner was silent and still on the grass. Bodie threw himself to his knees beside him. “Ray? Come on man! Ray!”

But Doyle didn't answer and when Bodie pulled him into his arms, he saw the bullet hole in the temple and the emptiness in Doyle's green eyes.

***

He could hear a whispered voice hissing through the leafy walls around him as he cradled his dead lover in his arms. “Why don't you just kill yourself? Never far apart – wasn't that the promise? Time for you to join him don't you think?”

He hefted his gun in his hand and knew that a life without Bodie wasn't one he wanted to consider. A bullet through his brain and the grief and pain that were making him want to curl up, sobbing into a ball, would be gone. He remembered leaning on that broad shoulder in the sunlight an hour ago, Bodie's kiss on his forehead, his promise to himself to capture the famous Bodie glare on canvas, and his partner's attempts to extract a promise from him. _”If you get the chance to go home, take it. Don't look back. Just go.”_

He took a deep breath, kissed Bodie's now-cold forehead and shoved the gun into its holster. “You wanted me to go home, sunbeam – so that's what I'm going to try to do. And I'll come back for you too, or get the Marquis to. He owes us that at least.”

He gently lowered Bodie's head to the ground and stood up, wiping his face on his sleeve like a little boy. “I love you,” he said and started walking towards the labyrinth's end.

***

He could hear a whispered voice hissing through the leafy walls around him as he cradled his dead lover in his arms. “Why don't you just kill yourself? Never far apart – wasn't that the promise? Time for you to join him don't you think?”

He hefted his gun in his hand and wondered if you could shoot fucking disembodied voices. Someone was going to pay for Doyle's death. The Marquis had said he would owe them a really big favour for their help – Bodie was going to hold him to that promise and turn London Below upside down until either the pain in his heart was vanquished or he was as dead as his partner.

He stood, put his gun away and went to finish the job they'd started, so that he could get on with pulling apart whoever was responsible for killing Doyle.

***

The Marquis was sitting between the roots of the tree when Doyle stumbled out of the maze. He wondered what horrors Doyle's path could have thrown at him to leave him looking so utterly wretched.

“ _You_ made it then?” Doyle's gravelly voice was as bitter as coffee grounds.

“Saw something worse than your Mr Cowley I take it?”

If looks could kill, Doyle's ferocious glare would have taken the Marquis' head off. “Your fucking maze killed Bodie,” he spat, “and I expect you to get his body out of there when we're done saving your Queen, so I can take him home.”

The Marquis didn't get a chance to reply. Something shot in front of him and bowled into Doyle, knocking him to the ground.

The Marquis smiled to himself as he recognised Bodie's leather jacket and heard an argument emanating from the pile of limbs in front of him.

“I thought you were dead, you dumb crud!”

“You were bloody dead, Ray! I know because you weren't talking back at me!”

“You...” Doyle's eyes narrowed.

Bodie beamed back at him. “Yeah?”

Doyle swallowed whatever he'd been going to say. “Well. I'm glad you got better.”

Bodie waggled his eyebrows at him. “Better?” he said, feigning injured pride, “I'm the best, me!”

Doyle smiled. “Yeah. Modest as ever I see, sunshine. Now gerroff me before you break something.”

They rolled apart, sat up and took in the blackened tree that loomed over them all.

“Oh. Very nice,” said Doyle.

“Don't they know you're supposed to chop the tree up before you turn it into firewood?” added Bodie.

“Gentlemen," said the Marquis, "this is the Burnt Oak and it will take us to the Queen.”


	7. Queen's Park

"Course it will," muttered Bodie.

"We s'posed to whittle our own glider out of it?" said Doyle.

"We burn the oak and pass through the fire to complete our journey," said the Marquis.

"Why don't I like the sound of that?" asked Doyle.

"Worried you'll singe your curls, petal?" said Bodie, ruffling his hands in Doyle's hair.

"Those of pure intent can step into the flames without fear of singeing," said the Marquis. "Everyone else..." he shrugged.

"What's _that_ mean?" demanded Doyle. "The fire spits you out a bit toasty, or incinerates you on the spot?"

"No one knows," said the Marquis.

"You sure you're not related to George Cowley?" asked Doyle.

The Marquis drew out a vintage silver-coloured cigarette lighter and ran his thumb over its opalescent surface. “I can't tell you what we'll find on the other side. If we're very lucky, we will arrive before the Shepherds leave to exercise their freedom, if we're not, we may find the assassins are already in the Park. You must be ready for a fight.”

Bodie and Doyle both drew their weapons, checked pockets for spare ammo and flicked off the safety on the guns. They exchanged a glance.

“Ready, sunshine?” said Doyle, his voice thicker than usual.

“Once more unto the breach, dear friend, once more,” said Bodie with a smile. “The game is well and truly afoot.”

***

The Marquis dropped to one knee, opened the lighter and flicked it into life. The yellow flame guttered, despite the lack of breeze before rallying itself into steadiness. He held it against the charred and blackened skin of the tree and watched the flame lick tentatively at the bark. A moment later it had taken hold and the Marquis stood back swiftly as the tree burst into deep orange flames.

He looked over his shoulder at the CI5 agents, standing shoulder to shoulder and staring at the blaze. “See you on the other side gentlemen.” And he stepped through the flames and the tree and disappeared.

“Fuck,” whispered Bodie.

“Yep,” said Doyle slowly.

Bodie turned to Doyle and with his free hand cupped his partner's face. The dark blue eyes were steady and serious, taking in every detail. He pressed his lips against Doyle's and felt his partner press back hard. He felt Doyle's hand against his own cheek and smiled into the kiss before gently breaking away.

“See you on the other side, Angelfish.”

“You'd better,” growled Doyle.

Bodie lightly cuffed Doyle's curls and, both hands now on his gun, followed the Marquis into the flames.

Doyle swallowed hard, returned his left hand to his gun and stepped into the burning tree.

As he approached the flames he could feel the heat radiating fiercely, but as soon as he took a step into the conflagration it faded away to a tender warmth, like a soothing Sunday evening bath. He could see nothing. This was blacker than any of the cellars he'd been unceremoniously dumped in over the years. He held on to the hope produced by not being burned to a crisp by the flames and took another step forward into the pitch black unknown. As he did so the blackness ripped open in front of him and he was propelled forward on to a beautifully maintained lawn. Instinctively he rolled and came up in a crouch, checking his surroundings for danger and for his companions.

This was obviously the park that the Marquis had mentioned. It even had the decency to look fairly normal, if considerably less litter-strewn than the parks of London Above. No graffiti here. Or dog shit. Or lager cans in the flower beds. His survey showed him he was beneath a magnificent oak tree. He wondered how many hundreds of years old it was. And he wondered where the hell Bodie and the Marquis were, a sliver of ice in his heart at the worry that Bodie wasn't considered sufficiently pure of intent by whatever the hell made these decisions.

“Ray!” A stage whisper from his right brought a smile to his lips and he dashed to join Bodie in some bushes. The Marquis was crouched there too, examining a fob watch with a worried look on his face.

“What?” asked Doyle.

“It's highly likely the Shepherds have left and will not return until the morning. We have to find the Queen as quickly as possible.”

“Do you know where she is?”

“Not far from here. She likes to stay close to the Royal Oak. Follow me.”

The Marquis picked his way through the greenery. Bodie's military eye and brain couldn't help but be impressed by his stealth and alertness.

They had crept through the vegetation for about five minutes when the sound of a child giggling and squealing shattered the peace of the park. The Marquis stopped and peered though a shield of leaves. In front of them lay a gothic-looking playground. Not for this designer the primary colours of normal playgrounds. The poles of the swings and slides and climbing frames were all painted in black gloss. Intricate metalwork decorated the rails too. One or two skeletons played fiddles and many more skeletons danced to the music that only they could hear. The skeletons had been left unpainted and their silvery bones glistened in the sunlight. In the midst of it all a small, pale child was being pushed towards the sky on a swing. The pusher was a stick-thin old lady in a black salwar kameez. Her brown skin was deeply wrinkled and her hair lay down her back in a silvery plait that reached to the base of her spine.

They could hear the child demanding to go higher and faster, and watched her swing her body back and forth with glee, white-blonde hair trailing through the air behind her.

They all saw the movement at the same time. A dark shape detached itself from the trees behind the playground. Then another. Finally, a third joined them. They were low to the ground and creeping towards the happy tableau. Bodie and Doyle brought their guns up and looked to the Marquis for a cue.

He was staring across the grass at the creatures advancing on the woman and child.

The shapes resolved themselves into three shaggy dogs – one black, one dark grey, one brown – and the CI5 agents began to relax. The Marquis sensed it and hissed, “They're shapeshifters. They'll be more vulnerable to attack when they return to their more human form. As soon as the change begins, hit them with everything you've got.”

“This'll be a story to tell the kids, eh, Ray?” muttered Bodie.

Doyle was about to reply when the black dog stood up on its hind legs. The other two followed suit and the men could see muscles bunching and changing shape beneath the fur and hear the creaking or cracking of bones as they were pulled into a new shape.

“Now!” growled the Marquis.

The three of them sprinted across the turf towards the creatures, watching the woman grab desperately at the swing, haul the child unceremoniously off the seat and wrap herself protectively around her.

The first creature was now a six-foot man-shaped thing with coal-black skin, talons instead of nails and an impossible mouth that opened horribly wide to roar at them and, display rows of shark-like teeth. Doyle skidded to a halt, took aim and fired a shot that tore through its shoulder and diverted its attention from the cowering figures near the swing. It howled with rage and started running towards Doyle, who aimed again and this time caught it in the stomach. It fell to the ground, but barely had Doyle taken a breath when it was up and running towards him again.

Tales of werewolves came back to him and he hoped to god that he wasn't going to need a fucking silver bullet. The thing was nearly on him now. He aimed again and this time the bullet sailed into the creature's forehead, snapping the head backwards and pulling the body to the ground in an ungainly sprawl. It lay suddenly still and silent on the grass. Doyle circled it at a distance, gun still ready, aware that Bodie and the Marquis were still engaged with the other two shapeshifters.

There was no more movement. Doyle aimed his gun where he thought the heart should be and pulled the trigger one more time anyway. Then he turned his attention to the ongoing fight.

Bodie was wrestling with the dark grey creature. It was more dog than man and was snapping its jaws at his head. Bodie booted it hard in the chest and then the balls. As it yelped and tried to move away from him, he wrapped his legs around its chest, grabbed its head with both hands and gave a vicious twist that produced a sharp snap and the shapeshifter went limp in Bodie's grasp.

He pushed the thing off him on to the grass and eyed it with distaste.

“Shoot the fucking thing, Bodie!” said Doyle as he ran past towards the Marquis. He heard two shots behind him and raised his own weapon in case he could get a clear shot.

The Marquis was brawling with a naked man with cocoa-brown skin and yellow eyes. Doyle was impressed by the Marquis' moves, but just wanted the whole thing to be over now.

“Step away from him or I'll shoot you,” he said loudly.

The naked man ignored him and aimed a kick at the Marquis' stomach.

“I won't warn you again,” said Doyle. “Pack it in or I'll put a dirty great big hole in you.”

The man's gaze flickered in Doyle's direction for a second and then he brought his fist round in an attempt to connect with the Marquis' face.

Doyle took aim and put a bullet through the naked man's thigh. He dropped to the floor, hands grasping at the heavily bleeding wound and mewling pitifully.

“Nicely done,” said the Marquis, trying not to pant. “Keep that gun on him while I try to get some answers out of him.”

He walked around behind the man and put him in an armlock. “Who sent you?” he hissed.

The man clamped his mouth shut and shook his head.

“Do you want my friend to put some more bullets in you?”

Another shake of the head.

“Then tell me who sent you.”

A whimper and a smaller headshake.

“You're more frightened of your employer than of us?”

A tiny nod.

“What about the Shepherds? We could give you to the Shepherds...”

The man squealed and thrashed about in the Marquis' grip.

“No? Well then, tell me who paid for this.”

“Is... is... is...” stammered the man, terror and arterial blood-loss leaching the colour from his face.

The Marquis sighed. “Is what?” he said impatiently.

“Is... is...” repeated the naked man.

“Spit it out,” said Doyle.

“Is...” said the man, his eyes rolling back into his head.

“Is what?” shouted the Marquis frantically.

But it was too late. A dead man lolled in the Marquis' arms.

***

They found Bodie playing I-Spy with the woman and child. The girl was so white she was almost translucent and she had climbed into Bodie's lap as if she'd known him her whole life.

The Marquis dropped into the most reverent bow Doyle had ever seen. “Your Majesty...” he said.

Doyle stuffed his gun back into its holster and bowed too. Bodie caught his eye and smirked. Doyle glared at him in lieu of giving him the traditional two-finger salute.

“We must take you somewhere safer until the Shepherds return, your Majesty. There may be more of them.”

The woman looked at the child, now wrapped round Bodie like ribbon round a Christmas present, looked up at the Marquis and nodded. She rose to her feet and gestured for the child to follow.

The girl shook her head and clung more tightly to Bodie.

“I must insist, your Majesty,” said the Marquis.

The girl wrapped herself tighter round Bodie's chest.

“How about if I come too?” said Bodie.

She looked up at him adoringly, smiled broadly and nodded.

Doyle rolled his eyes. “The bleedin' birds out of the trees, Bodie,” he said. But there was a note of pride in his voice. He stuck out a hand to pull Bodie and the girl up from the ground.

Bodie hoicked her up on to his hip and gave her one of his most charming smiles. “Where to, your Majesty?”

She stuck out a slender arm and pointed back towards the Royal Oak.

“Your wish is my command,” said Bodie and gave her a wink. She smiled and snuggled up against his chest.

“You heard the lady,” he said, and set off across the soft, springy turf towards the vast oak tree with the woman, Doyle and the Marquis close behind.

“Now where, sweetheart? I mean, your Majesty,” said Bodie as he carried her into the shade of the tree.

She giggled, attempted to look serious and then pointed up. They looked up to see a huge wooden platform encircling the oak, twenty feet above the ground.

“Easy to defend. I like your thinking,” said Bodie, “but how do we get up there?”

The girl turned to look at the woman, who pulled out a single hair from her head. She passed the three-foot long strand of silver to the Queen who, in turn, held it carefully in her fingers and whispered to it, rubbing the hair as she did so.

Doyle's jaw fell open as the hair grew thicker and longer as he watched. In less than a minute the Queen was holding a rope strong enough to bear a man, and long enough to reach the platform above them. She held out one end to Doyle, who took it.

“There something up there I can lasso this on to, your Majesty?”

“Just throw it,” she said, sounding like any other precocious, commanding six-year-old he'd met.

He looped the rope, swung it around a couple of times and let go. The rope snaked, glistening, through the air and where the end of it brushed against the edge of the platform stuck to it fast. Doyle tugged hard, but it didn't give.

“Up you go,” she said, “and lower the ladder.”

Bodie saw the tiny twitch at the edge of his partner's eye and kept his face a mask of absolute solemnity.

“Certainly, your Majesty.”

He wrapped both hands around the rope, which managed somehow to be softer than normal rope but still give plenty of grip, and started climbing. Halfway up he stopped cursing Bodie and started considering that if the Marquis were London Below's George Cowley, the Queen was surely its Brian Macklin. In no way cheered by this thought, he hauled himself up to the platform and rolled under its railing and on to the wooden boards.

To his left was a trapdoor, bolted shut. He pulled it open and gaped as the oak tree sent its roots shooting up from the ground towards him. He stepped back and watched the roots form fingers that gripped the edge of the platform, as well as rungs to make a ladder.

The Queen made the climb herself, with Bodie at her back, having sent both the woman and the Marquis ahead. As Bodie clambered on to the platform, the Queen brushed her fingers along the top of the tree roots. They cheerily waved their fingers at her, released their grip on the floorboards and retreated to ground level once more.

Doyle meanwhile had pulled the hair rope up and coiled it at the edge of the platform.

The woman spoke for the first time, “Can I get anyone a cup of tea?”, and Doyle started to feel almost human again.

***

Rashida (or Radish to her young and royal charge) had produced a large picnic blanket, cushions, tea and biscuits, and everyone, except the Marquis, was now sprawled sleepily in the unseasonal warmth. Doyle rested against the tree with Bodie's head in his lap. The Queen was curled like a cat against Bodie's chest. Rashida lay like a 1940s Hollywood starlet along a line of cushions.

The Marquis stood at the railings, keeping watch over the park below as the sun sank below the horizon.

***

Bodie woke in the middle of the night. The air was chilly, but he was not. This was partly because of the heat radiating from Doyle, but mostly because someone had draped blankets over him while he slept. He shifted a little to see that Doyle, the Queen and Rashida had been similarly cared for. The Marquis de Carabas still stood watch – his black coat rendering him almost invisible in the darkness of the night. He turned at Bodie's movement and said quietly, “Only a few hours to go, Bodie. The Shepherds return at dawn and our job will be done.”

Bodie nodded and started to speak but the Marquis interrupted him. “No, get some sleep, Bodie. You have most certainly earned it.”

Too tired to argue and not wanting to disturb those sleeping next to him, Bodie gave in without a fight and was asleep again in minutes.

***

When Doyle woke with the thin light of the dawn, neither Rashida nor the Marquis were in sight. The Queen was still curled into Bodie's chest and Bodie had one protective arm across her small body. Bodie's head was heavy in his lap and the tree was now digging painfully into his back but he sat for a moment more, admiring his partner's handsome face and running his fingers through the thick, dark hair that framed it.

He pricked his ears at the sudden sound of voices from below and eased Bodie's head from his lap to investigate. He drew his gun and peered cautiously over the edge of the platform.

Half a dozen white men, dressed in army surplus and leaning on extremely sturdy wooden staves, were listening intently to the Marquis and occasionally punctuating his monologue with curses or laughter. One of the men, in his early sixties Doyle would guess from the white hair and lived-in skin, looked up at the movement and gave him a wink and a grin. Doyle flexed the fingers of his right hand in greeting and was content to simply observe what he hoped was a handing over of responsibility.

He smiled as a warm hand wrapped itself around his waist and he turned to lay a soft kiss on Bodie's cheek. “'ello 'andsome,” he murmured.

Bodie pressed a kiss to Doyle's temple. “Ready to go home, sunshine?”

“Never thought I'd miss Anson's cigars, Murph's tea or George Cowley's anything, but yeah, I'm ready to go home.”

***

There had been breakfast up in the branches, though neither man could work out how Rashida did it, and Rock, Paper, Scissors with the Queen until the Marquis finally called to them from ground level.

Doyle stuck his head over the edge of the platform and framed a question with a raise of his eyebrows.

“Time for you two to go home. Her Majesty allowing, of course.”

***

Three Shepherds were waiting on the ground for them. The Marquis gave another reverential bow to the tiny Queen. “You will be safe now, your Majesty. The Shepherds are checking the park to be certain you have no more unwanted guests.”

“Good,” she said, wriggling her bare toes in the soft grass and watching as the white stubs appeared and disappeared in the green blades.

Rashida bent down and whispered in the Queen's ear, like a mother taking a child home from a birthday party, “What do you say?”...

“Thank you, de Carabas,” said the Queen. “How can I repay you?”

“Might I beg a strand of your hair, your Majesty?”

She eyed him coolly, shrugged and plucked a white-blonde hair from her head.

“Thank you, your Majesty,” he said, carefully tucking the gift away in one of his many pockets.

Rashida whispered again in the child's ear. The Queen turned to Bodie and Doyle and said, “Thank you for saving me. How can I repay _you_?”

Doyle nudged his partner to speak.

“We'd like to go back to our lives in London Above please, your Majesty.”

A frown was etched in the girl's otherwise smooth forehead.

Doyle dropped down on one knee and spoke, “Your realm is truly amazing, your Majesty, and we will never forget our time in it, but the lord of our fiefdom needs us back to protect his subjects.”

“Who is your lord?” she said, a fierce look on her face.

“Mr Cowley, George Cowley,” said Doyle.

Her face lit up like a summer's day. “The Cow?” she said, her tone a mixture of joy and awe.

“That's the one,” said Bodie, allowing this final surprise to crease his lips into a smile.

She looked at him, a cloud of sadness back on her face. “I don't want you to go.”

Bodie dropped down on to his knees and gave her a twinkle of his dark blue eyes. “I know, but I have to go. _We_ have to go. Please?”

She threw her arms around him and squeezed. Bodie returned her hug and waited, on tenterhooks for her decision.

“Promise you won't forget me,” she said into his shoulder.

“I promise,” said Bodie. “We will never forget.”

***

They walked across the grass in silence, shoulders bumping occasionally, the Marquis and the white-haired Shepherd ahead of them, deep in conversation.

Suddenly the Marquis and the Shepherd stopped and turned to face them.

“It is time we took our leave, gentlemen,” said the Marquis, a wide and brilliant smile lighting up his face. “It has been an honour and a privilege. Thank you.”

“Well, we certainly weren't lying when we said we wouldn't forget our time here,” said Doyle and held out his hand to shake the Marquis'.

“Keep her safe,” said Bodie, offering his hand next.

“We will,” said the Marquis. “Now, just keep going in a straight line and you'll find yourself at the top of the Goldhawk Road. I managed to find you some money for the Tube – London Above is tedious like that, isn't it? Goodbye and good luck, gentlemen.”

“Yeah, thanks. Take care of yourself,” said Doyle.

“Goodbye,” said Bodie, and slipping his hand around Doyle's, led him back towards normality.


	8. Back to life (However do you want me)

“What time is it?”

“I'd settle for knowing what day it is, mate," replied Doyle. "I mean, it feels like late afternoon." He gave Bodie a significant look . "If we've gone over our 72 hours, Cowley's going to have our fucking arses you know.”

Bodie wrinkled his nose and winked at him. “We'll just tell him we were defending the Queen from a werewolf attack. It'll be fine.”

Doyle punched him, not entirely gently, in the arm. “You moron. We'll need a more believable lie than the truth.”

“Don't see why. My new best friend back there knew who he was.”

“Doesn't mean it goes both ways, does it?”

Bodie laid his arm across Doyle's shoulders. “Look, if it comes to it, we tell them I got attacked...” He ran a finger over the fairy scratches, “...and you had to rescue me. It wouldn't be the first time, would it?”

***

Shepherds Bush Tube station was packed. They had apparently joined the equivalent of an Underground spring tide – the tourists, the tired-looking mums with young children, older schoolchildren on their way home and students heading out to get an early start on their drinking were being bolstered by the first wave of commuters. All of which meant the eastbound platform was a solid mass of humanity. When a train pulled in, there was barely room for people to leave the carriages, but as soon as they did the crowd was sucked in to the carriage, carrying Bodie and Doyle with them.

As the doors shut, Bodie suddenly knew what it felt like to be a tinned sardine. He was pressed as tight as could be against Doyle's back. His right foot rammed next to Doyle's, his groin pushed against Doyle's shapely arse. Despite two days of running around in a magical world without shower facilities – or, Bodie considered, perhaps because of these things – Doyle's scent was doing unfortunate things to him. Unfortunate only in the wrong time, wrong place sense, but the woody, musky, faintly lemony smell in his nose, and the lean, muscled body leaning ever so slightly back into him were sending his blood southbound.

He wasn't alone in feeling his cock harden. Doyle smirked to himself and gave the gentlest grind into Bodie's groin as the train swayed around a corner.

Bodie muttered something under his breath. Doyle looked back over his shoulder. “You okay, mate?” he said cheerily.

Bodie glared at him, the dark blue eyes almost black. “It's been a long day, Raymond...” he growled.

Doyle chewed on his smile. “We'll be out of here in ten minutes and home in another five. First thing I'll do is fix your pipe and slippers.”

The train lurched around another corner, brakes squealing. Bodie used the noise to cover his whisper into Doyle's ear. “I'll bleedin' fix you, sunshine, if you're not careful.”

Doyle's sea-green eyes twinkled back at him. “I'm counting on it, my son.”

***

They were carried off the train at Tottenham Court Road and past the familiar and frenetic mosaicked walls in another unfightable human tide. They tumbled off the escalator, were pulled through the station and eventually found themselves deposited in relative peace on the pavement outside.

They looked at each other for a moment, caught in that moment when an op was finally over but before the front door of the flat could be closed on the whole thing, laughed, and started walking, past the Dominion Theatre with its hoarding advertising John Martyn, past the fast food shops and bookies and clothes shops, and down Tottenham Court Road towards their flat.

Finally they reached the building on the corner of Bedford Avenue and let themselves in through the small residents' door. Their footsteps echoed in the stairwell as they pulled themselves up to the fourth floor, but finally the front door was locked behind them and they both leaned heavily against it.

Bodie felt Doyle reach for his fingers and smiled to himself.

“Where d'you want fixing then, 4.5?” he said.

“Your pipe and slippers are in the living...”

Doyle's words were cut off as Bodie pivoted through 180 degrees on his shoulder and right foot to lean meaningfully into his partner.

“Fuck my pipe and slippers,” he growled.

Doyle grinned. “Never heard it call that before.”

Bodie could resist Doyle's mouth no longer and bit a kiss on to his lips. A small, gutteral moan escaped Doyle's throat and, spurred on, Bodie kissed him harder, Doyle's head bouncing gently on the front door under the force.

Doyle snaked both arms around Bodie's waist to lay his hands on the flat, warm muscle of Bodie's broad back and pulled him in harder. Bodie tightened his grip on Doyle's head with one hand and ran his other palm down a stubbled cheek.

Bodie broke off the kiss to start unbuttoning Doyle's shirt and nibbling at his throat and then his collarbone. Doyle, already beginning to melt under Bodie's attentions, tucked a hand under his partner's chin and tipped it up until a pair of dark blue eyes were staring at him.

“It's not that I don't appreciate your enthusiasm, Bodie, but I'd walk barefoot over twelve broken bottles of Cowley's best scotch to get to a bed right now. D'you think we could delay our gratification for the fifteen seconds it'll take to walk down the hallway?”

Bodie held his gaze as he ran his tongue and then his teeth over his bottom lip, smirked and dropped to his knees with a husky “No”.

Practised fingers had Doyle's belt, button and zip undone in seconds. He heard his partner's head thud once more against the door as he licked a slow stripe along his hard cock, before lapping delicately at the pre-cum moistening the tip.

It took all of Doyle's strength to stay on his feet as Bodie wrapped a hand around the base of his cock and his lips around the rest.

Bodie hollowed his cheeks and thrilled at the helpless sound that escaped from Doyle's mouth in response. There were few things he got more pleasure from than running his lips and tongue over the silk-smooth skin of Doyle's cock until he came, but a wicked thought entered his mind and he knew he had to trade one of his favourite pleasures for another.

He let Doyle's cock slip from his lips with a wet pop, sank his weight back on to his calves and looked up, wide-eyed, waiting.

He didn't have to wait long.

"You all right, mate?"

Bodie could hear the frustration hiding beneath Doyle's concern and opened his eyes wider, for the full butter-wouldn't-melt effect.

"Well," he said, letting a little more Scouse than usual slip into his voice, "I was thinking about what you said. Y'know, about delayed gratification, and perhaps there is something in it."

Doyle narrowed his eyes and growled, "Bo-die..."

"You were right, mate. Good things come to those who wait and all that."

Doyle sank to his knees with a groan and leaned his head back against the front door. Bodie gazed at the man between his legs, the stubbled, exposed throat, the shirt unbuttoned to the sternum, the long fingers splayed across denim-clad thighs, the hard, wet cock begging for attention, and couldn't bait his partner a moment longer.

Bodie leaned in to brush a kiss against Doyle's throat. "Let me take you to bed, champ."

Doyle opened one wary eye, "Champ?" he said suspiciously.

Bodie beamed back at him. "You're the Champion of Newington aren't you?"

He fluttered his eyelashes. "My hero... the best of the best..." he swooned in an outrageously camp American accent.

Doyle rolled his eyes. "Moron," he said, and slipped into an authentic Deep South accent, "Bodie, you big stud - take me to bed, or lose me forever."

Bodie fought to keep a straight face, pushed himself to his feet and pulled Doyle up after him, "Show me the way home, honey."

***

There wasn't a trail of whisky and broken glass between the front door and the bedroom, but there was one of shoes, jackets and clothes. Holstered guns and RTs were thrown on bedside tables and any remaining fabric was abandoned to the carpet as they tumbled on to the bed.

Doyle pushed Bodie on to his back, pinned his arms above their heads and kissed him hard. "Good things come to those who wait eh, Bodie?"

Bodie grinned and wiggled his fingers – a reminder that it was a conscious choice on his part to remain restrained.

Doyle dipped his head to whisper in Bodie's ear, “I should cuff you to the bedpost right now, and delay your gratification until you scream.”

A faint sigh brushed his shoulder, making his cock twitch. He looked Bodie in the eye and considered the spare cuffs he kept in the bedside cabinet. “Really?”

Bodie blinked, grinned and flipped them both over, so that now Doyle was pinned both by Bodie's bulk and at the wrists. “Nah,” he said, “need to finish what I started.”

He sank a slow kiss on to Doyle's lips before kissing and licking his way down his neck, chest and stomach. He laid a proprietorial kiss on the tip of Doyle's cock before sucking it back deep into his mouth. Doyle groaned and sank his fingers into Bodie's hair, summoning his last reserves of willpower to stop himself fucking Bodie's mouth.

Bodie splayed his fingers across Doyle's taut, flat abdomen, curled his tongue to the back of his mouth – enjoying the tension he felt suddenly string through Doyle's body – and teased the tip against the head of Doyle's cock before languorously unfurling his tongue against the rest of it. Sometimes Doyle could take this half a dozen times before coming, but not today. He cried out as he came, fingers suddenly stilled in Bodie's hair, body arching off the bed with pleasure.

He lay boneless and breathing heavily while Bodie made his way back up the bed to lie at his side, an unbearably smug expression on his face, his erection pressing into Doyle's hip.

“You feeling suitably gratified, sunbeam?”

Doyle peered at him suspiciously. “Depends. Is this where you demand a bacon butty from me as recompense?”

A mischievous twinkle danced in Bodie's dark eyes. “Now there's a thought,” he murmurmed. “But, I think I'll stick to Plan A, me old son.”

“Which is?”

“Fucking you until you don't know which way is up.”

“And they say romance is dead.”

“It was doing okay until Cowley sent me into an abandoned warehouse to bring it in for questioning... Well, you know how these things usually end.”

Bodie had reached for the lube and was busy slicking himself with it.

“Yeah,” said Doyle, “with squealing car tyres, rooftop chases, shots fired and a dead suspect. Not to mention a tetchy Scotsman.” He turned his head away and stared at the ceiling.

“What now?” said Bodie wearily. “I can hear the cogs grinding from here.”

“Just thinking about what passes for normal for us. We're almost as far away from Joe Public as the residents of London Below. CI5 is like another world. Sort of London, but not really.”

“Probably the only reason we're still alive after the last couple of days, mate.”

“Yeah.” Doyle smiled and kissed Bodie until he could feel pre-cum leaking on to his hip. “Come on then. We delay this gratification any longer and we'll be snoring into our pillows instead.”

Bodie grinned at him and carefully slid one finger inside him. Doyle sighed and wriggled in Bodie's hand. Bodie buried his nose in Doyle's hair, revelling in the scent as he gently and expertly prepared his lover with a second and then a third finger.

At last he pulled himself away, slid his fingers out and his cock in, overwhelmed as always by sensation as he waited for his cue, and feeling his heart pinch itself at the sight of Ray Doyle, lying beneath him beautiful and more than a little debauched.

Doyle's eyes flicked open and he whispered, “Fuck's sake, Bodie, move will you.”

“Thought you'd never ask.” And he set up a gentle rhythm, pleased to see Doyle's head fall back into the pillow in pleasure. His eyes were shut, his lips parted and his throat lay seductively exposed. Bodie's fingers curled a little tighter on Doyle's flanks as he started to fuck him harder and faster, delighting in the pleasure on his partner's face, the flush on his cheeks and the groans escaping his mouth.

Doyle's hands closed on Bodie's, his otherworldly green eyes opened and devoured every inch of the man buried deep inside him, and the unshuttered look of love on his face tipped Bodie right over the edge.

***

They lay in a sticky tangle of limbs, peaceful at last.

“Fuck.”

Bodie shifted into a more comfortable position. “Thought we'd done that,” he said sleepily.

“We forgot to pick up a newspaper on the way home, you moron.”

“Liverpool will have won. It's fine.”

Doyle nudged an elbow into Bodie's chest. “I could still sell you to the Russians y'know.”

“Nah, Cold War's practically over mate. Glasnost!”

“Bless you.”

Bodie pulled a face. “All right, what do we need a paper for, Ray?”

“Find out what day it is. Find out how many bollocks we're going to have chewed off by Cowley.”

Bodie looked irritatingly pleased with himself. “I _did_ fuck your brains out,” he said.

“Bo-die...”

“Come on, Angelfish. Don't need a copy of the Grauniad to put your mind at ease.”

Bodie rolled off the bed and padded back towards the living room. Doyle gazed appreciatively at the sight for a moment before following. His partner was perched on the sofa, wielding the remote and peering at the buttons in the dusk.

“Aha! There you go, Ray.”

Doyle looked at the screen which was covered in garishly coloured blocky text and graphics. Apparently Liverpool had indeed won their match. And then he looked to the top of the page and saw, next to the page number and Ceefax heading, the date and time.

“That can't be right!” said Doyle.

Bodie frowned at the screen, “Don't see why not, we're the better team...”

“Not the score, you dumb crud! The date! Look at the date!”

Bodie looked. According to the teletext they'd been gone from London Above less than 24 hours.

“Oh. That's … odd.”

“It can't be right.”

“The time on Ceefax is _always_ right. Famously so. Anyway, I think we've established that the rules of London Below don't apply up here, so I don't see why that time can't be right. Or perhaps my little friend thought we'd like to get a bit of leave before the Cow gets his hands on us again. Either way, I don't intend to look a gift horse in the mouth. Let's get some sleep and then we can head to Southend in the morning for rollercoasters and Rossi's ice cream.”

“Cockles?”

Bodie stuck his tongue into his cheek and raised his eyebrows.

Doyle sighed. “Don't make me resort to a joke about winkles, Bodie.”

Bodie tried, and failed, to keep a straight face. “Wouldn't dream of it. You want cockles, mate, cockles we shall have. On the seafront, with nary a mermaid or a marquis in sight.”

Doyle shivered at the memory of the mer-thing's underwater kiss of life.

Bodie flicked the TV off, sprang off the sofa and wrapped himself around Doyle's goose-bumped skin. “Bed?”

Doyle rested his head against a broad, smooth shoulder, listening to the strong and generous heart beating beneath. It was very good to be home again. “Bed,” he agreed.

***

From the window ledge, Master Whitebelly watched them go. He chittered happily to himself and then headed back to deliver his report.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note to anyone unfamiliar with British newspapers. The Guardian was, at one time, famous for its typos and was, thus, nicknamed The Grauniad.


End file.
